Drifting Down the Conscious Stream
by MidCircleNine
Summary: A very tired order member drifts down the stream of consciousness. Supposed to be Remus, but could fit many others. New Summary. New Title.


Title - Insomniac Workaholic, Midnight Ramblings of

Word Count - 3104 (So close..)

Summary - If he'd simply been abit or two to either side, he would've seen it coming. Only a few sparse centimetres to one side or the other, and the inevitable would have been more evitable. It would've been downright avoidable, and easily so.

Author's Note - This is supposed to be a segment from a longer story that I've been trying to work on for.. Ages. I got the idea for the story at least two years ago, but so far, all that's been coming out is little snippets such as this that really don't seem to tie-in with either the plot, or each other very well as of yet. Oh well. If I can ever get the story going, it should go a bit easier for all the little bits I'm getting now..I wrote this with Remus in mind, but I suppose if you wish, it could transpose to a few other characters. I've no idea what he's thinking about in the first few sentences. I figured that it would become evident once I wrote the story.. And once I do, I hope it will.. XD

Disclaimer - I can't come up with anything witty enough to go here.. The characters are not mine, they are merely my own rendition of someone else's. Sad? Possibly. Fun?Indubitably.

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If he'd simply been abit or two to either side, he would've seen it coming. Only a few sparse centimetres to one side or the other, and the inevitable would have been more evitable. It would've been downright avoidable, and easily so. 

What a difference abit or two can make.

A bitor two physically can mean the difference between a killing spell, and a grazing spell. On an emotional scale, it can mean happy times, or a ball of maddening frenzy headed your way.Bits aren't so innocent as they appear.

He had heard it said once, that life was short, and in the moments. To the former, his logical side nearly screamed that life was the longest thing one could possibly hope to attempt. What can one do that would be longer? Of course, now, in slight retrospect and with what he'd hoped was a slightly better understanding of the world, or at least that which he was in, someone saying that life is short makes a bit of sense. It's also said that time flies when you're having fun, and crawls at the most inopportune times. He's experienced this as well, having both had moments that seemed to go so quickly that he still hasn't even realized exactly what happened to them, and adversely, having gone between two moments that were so far flung from each other that he figures three ice ages would sit comfortably. With plenty of elbow room between them. Perhaps even some to spare, depending on how much they ate for supper. Maybe that's what makes life seem so short to some. He's noticed it to be a natural human tendency to retain longer, a sharper image of a bad time than those of the happier variety. He's recognised it in himself, always discarding those things that went well to look forward to those that still haven't come to pass. It never seems like there is enough time to get it all done.

As for thinking life is in the moments, to this, he has always agreed. Whether it is a moment that you don't know, or one you became intimate friends with, it is all those moments strung together that makes up your life. He recognised that a long time ago.

By now, he isn't quite sure where he heard those wee pearls of wisdom. He can't even recall where or when he heard them. He does know, though, that they provided him with interesting internal monologues many times when he had little else to do but ponder the intricacies of life. An event that seemed to happen often.

Of course, he has heard quite a many other quotes, phrases, pearls of wisdom, and has had numerous 'things-to-think-about' bestowed upon him. All those ranging from, 'A man who doesn't truly trust himself can never trust anyone else,' to, 'Make sure you don't throw rocks at the squid's eye..' and to always be sure the correct end of the wand is pointed away from you when you say a spell. However, few of those, especially the bit about the squid, which at that period in life he had figured to be rather more of the common sense sort than the proverb variety, have caused him to think and question other things.

You see, when this particular person gets to thinking about life; he's not sure whether anyone else does this, as he has yet to become an accomplished enough legilimens, or even someone else; he seems to recall all the instances where he wished at least one thing could have gone a bit differently. This ties back in with recalling bad things better and more readily than others. It doesn't have to be a big thing that changed, simply.. Enough. Enough so that there could have been something to come out of the situation, some kind of good. Or at least, not quite so much bad. That would be nice too. And so as he thinks about these past events, and the little things that could have changed them, he thinks about those moments in which those little things would have been done. He thinks about how easy it would have been for those little things to have been done by himself, or someone else, if only the notion could have been conceived at that point.

The retroactive knowledge is tantalizing, holding a different future in the past palm of his hand.

Sometimes it hurts to think about it.

And sometimes, it's the only thing that can carry him.

Either way, he can't help but to think about it. About how if he'd been just a we bit more this, done a little something different there, said just those last words he thought about saying, but then reconsidered. Of course, he does realise that these cheerier, rosier versions of his memories may still not have happened, even if he had done that just a split-second faster. That there is no way to really know what else could have transpired from all those crossroads. With the same catalysts, the same people, and the same circumstances, who's to say that the entire thing wouldn't just happen all over again?

Well, no one.

Because no one can know.

There are those who argue that time-turners can solve this little problem. Just as long as your future self in the past isn't seen, as long as you know what you're doing, as long as you can fit yourself back to where you were when you went back in time, as long as, as long as.. But really? It's all a timeline. One timeline. The events in the past have already happened, even if to you, they are occurring again in a new present. To change something in the past and have it truly affect the future would mean time going backwards on itself, erasing everything that had happened between the change and what should be the present, and then re-writing itself. So, in essence, even those without a time-turner would dabble in the sands of time. They might not realise they're making a castle on the beach, but they get the chance to make new footprints, and perhaps avoid stepping on that crab they accidentally stepped on last time we did all this.

He's done a great deal of thinking about this as well. A hazard of allowing oneself to become too bored. Bored to the point of allowing one's mind to wander wherever it so desires, without a leash. And no curfew. He knows he shouldn't be so lenient with it, but at the same time, he can't help himself. It hurts to think about what's happened, and it hurts to think about what might've gone differently, and it if it hurts both ways, why not just save himself the trouble of trying to restrain mental processes that are going to go where they please anyway? The only harm is to his sanity, and at times his liver as well, but both of those are going either way, so it seems like there is no way to win or lose. Which is, in-and-of-itself, depressing.

There's just no escaping it, is there?

Well, yes, actually. There is. In his struggle to simply not think about anything, he's found that simply staying occupied and busy from the moment he gets up to the moment he goes back to bed is a great way to prevent those pesky, wriggly little thoughts from wandering about without supervision. He's gotten so into the habit of just not allowing himself the time to think about anything that he's not working on, that even his dreams are filled with this business. Although, he knows that eventually this system won't work for him anymore. He knows that one day, all this work just won't work anymore, and that then, on that day, the reality of reality will be harder to face than ever it was before.

He both fears, and waits for that day.

Fears it because he's isn't sure he can recover from it, and waits for it because he doesn't think he can keep this up for too much longer.

He doesn't think that he can keep up with his growing workweek that as it is now, only allows for work, sleep, a meal a day, and few other necessities. He can't even remember the last conversation he had with someone that mentioned something other than Order work. He knows he's had them, yes, out of necessity. The necessity to placate worried friends and Order members. He can vaguely recall carrying on a brief conversation with Arthur a few days ago, about the wonders of the 'toasting oven'. He allows himself a small smile, but then remembers quickly the comment of someone else yesterday, about how his smile was becoming a rare sight, and perhaps would be malformed if he didn't try to bring it out more often. The comment had earned the bearer another, slightly larger smile, but both disappeared shortly. The one he wore now faltered, and slowly wore away, though he still held a small tickle of amusement somewhere between his spine and his stomach at the wonder Arthur always had for muggles. He had to admit, if he had been a pureblood, he probably would be full of the same wonder.

He rolls over to his side; unhappy with the way these unwanted thoughts were eating away at what amount of time he had allotted himself for sleeping. He didn't want these thoughts, he had tried to turn them loose weeks ago, surreptitiously leaving their cage open and then conveniently forgetting to put up all the 'lost' posters. It wasn't his fault they seemed to know their way back. He had even tried to lock the cage behind them, but to his dismay, he awoke one morning to find them returned, and lightly sleeping from their night out at play. Some snored. He imagined that was what caused him to realise they were still there, because otherwise, he wouldn't have paid any attention to them. When they wake up though, he knows they will be full of energy, and will want his full attention, for either playtime, or simply to tell him of all their escapades. He doesn't really want to be here for that. He doesn't think he'll be able to handle them all at once. They're much too small. And yappy.

He rolls over, onto his back. These thoughts were settling somewhere near the small of his back and base of his spine. A couple had wandered down to the old injury in his leg, causing his legs to feel restless and agitated. Letting out a silent sigh of frustration at the double-fronted attack on his comfort, mental and now physical, he now faced the choice of counter-attack.

He could get up and either move mindlessly, or try and get some more work on that file done.

Or, he could lie here, hoping that his weariness would eventually overcome him.

Decisions, decisions.

Heheard a clock in an adjacent room go off. Pausing his thoughts, he counted the time.

A grimace. A smothered groan. Probably what would have been an impressively disgusted face as well, had anyone been there to see it.

Of course, if anyone had been there, he wouldn't have made it for them to see.

Who would have thought that something that originally seems as innocent as a thought could do this to him? Through his own mind, he was being deprived of sleep, health, sanity, peace, humour, relaxation, contentment, and was rapidly losing the ability to do many other things. He never would have imagined that one day he would be lying in a bed, in a house where he was to-tell-the-truth frightened to even enter some of the rooms, held in a cage by his own sub-conscious. Never in a million years. Never in.. Never. It's not one of those situations one normally envisions for themselves in a few years. He's fairly certain that no one he knows would have pictured themselves, or him either, in any of the predicaments they seem to have found themselves in lately. If one wants to count 'lately' as a period of time spanning years. And he does. It seems to fit at times, while at others, he's sure it's been at least a decade since yesterday. At least.

He rolls again, this time onto his stomach. He can smell the many smells within the pillows and bedsheets, his own intermingled with those that were here before. Those are rather faint by now, but it is one of those times where he can smell anything, and hear everything, if he wants to. He's hoping that smelling as much as he can, and straining to hear erroneous noises will help either tax the remnants of his energy, or simply overload his senses. Either way, he hopes to fall asleep. He takes a deep breath in, earthen, woodsy, and chocolate scents mixing with musky, antique smells, and another that he can't place exactly but decides after a few moments that he likes. Odd though, that he can't place it. Another deep inhale, after exhaling the old one, of course. This time, he not only picks up the scents in the pillow, he also catches a faint hint of the book lying open next to his head on the bedside table. It is an old book, and has the same smell that all of them seem to get after a certain period of time. That is another smell he likes. Bringing his arms up to grab the pillow his head is on, one arm from below, and one resting next to his head on top, he exhales again, and takes another deep breath. Again, he smells the smells he's been smelling. Again, he smells a new one. Or two. If it is two, they fit together so well that someone has either done their job right, or stumbled upon something very interesting. Again, he can't quite place them, and he hopes that he can attribute that to the slowing of mental process for sleep. He worries though, that it is rather the effect of the hyperventilation he's given himself after breathing too deeply too many times in a row. At this point, he would sigh, if he didn't think that could make it worse.

Legs sore and restless again, he rolls over, realising almost too late that he can't do that again. At least not to this side. While if he were to try and get out of bed on this side tomorrow; or this morning now, he's lost track of time again; it would be pointless, and would doubtlessly be on the wrong side in more ways than one, there is still enough space between the bed and the wall for him to fall off the edge. Of the bed. Molly might say he's too skinny, but he thinks that even if he were to get to the size she has always wished for him, he could still get a nasty bump. The hardwood floors in this house don't bounce very much anymore. They lost any leeway they might've had long ago.

Glancing down, he sees that he has been saved from both any physical injuries, and any concerned Order members bursting into his room in any amount of clothing, wondering what that loud bump that came from upstairs was. He has been saved by roughly a half and two inches.

Which takes him back to the beginning.

He lets out a soft mirthful laugh, the tone soundingstrange even to his own ears. It's perhaps been too long since he truly laughed. He hopes he doesn't ever forget how. He has met people who can't seem to get it right, and the thought scares him, along with many other things these days that he had previously thought would never apply to him.

This time, an inch or so to his right would indeed have let him see something coming. The floor. But that's not what he meant earlier. He's not quite sure what he meant earlier anymore, but he remembers that at the time, it meant something to him. It must have, or he wouldn't have thought it, and certainly wouldn't have followed the thought to where he is now. He might even be asleep by now if earlier it had meant nothing to him. Rolling his eyes behind closed eyelids, he stifles another cross between a groan and what may pass for a laugh in some countries. He's cycling again, after following one thought to the here and now, he's begun to take the here and now back to the there and then, following the same path until the there and then meets up with the here and now again to create a new present that's already happened.

He worries about the way that all made sense.

And still does.

Deciding that he actually was comfortable on his stomach, he rolls back onto it, holding the pillow as he did before. Making a strong mental effort to first not think about anything, he realises belatedly that not thinking about anything at all is next to impossible, and in his current state, may just take him two weeks past never to really achieve. Instead, he focuses on something that as of yet, has brought him more happiness than grief, and can even help alleviate some of the bad that seeps from other things. He picks that one thing, and focuses on it until it's all he sees in his mind, and all he smells around him. The background noises turn white, and he isn't aware when he finally can't feel his limbs anymore, or when the weight of the thoughts gradually lifts and his back straightens and his legs just feel tired again instead of tired and jittery. All he knows is that he begins to fade away from himself, following the image he fought hard to place and keep in his mind, until it takes him to sleep.

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Strange, no? I don't know where it came from, just that it began somewhere, and ended somewhere else after backtracking to the beginning again somewhere in the middle.. And now I'll leve you with the knowledge that reviews are cherished ever-so-much and can literally make me happy for days. Weeks, even. ;). I'm serious. I love feedback, be it glowing, shiny, dull, concerned, or even criticizing. Danke! 


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